


So Dreary, Everywhere I Look

by le_criminel_consultation



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Riches to Rags, The Beginning of the End, month of the void, the marked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8185927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_criminel_consultation/pseuds/le_criminel_consultation
Summary: "My mother told me never to make an enemy of a witch."A tale of Granny Rags.





	1. Chapter 1

The children sing nursery rhymes in the streets.  She listens to them with half an ear, sometimes catching herself humming along as she stirs the porridge in the pot.  She shouldn’t be offended - she shouldn’t even _care_.  It’s a child’s song.  It’s something you sing to a child to comfort them during the storm.  Who cares?  Yet - somehow - the simple words burrow into her mind and gnaw at her heart.  She lays awake at night, the taunting eerie voices purring in her ears.

_I’m a mean old witch with a hat!_   
_And I ride on a broom with my cat!_   
_And my shoes are pointed,_   
_And my chin is too,_   
_And you better watch out,_   
_Cause I might Scare you!_   
_I’m a mean old witch with a hat!_

Stupid children.  Silly, stupid children who know nothing of magic, of true magic, with darkness and bones and soft purple light.  She seethes over her work as they dance and laugh in the street right outside her door.  It ruins her concentration.  The knife slips in her quaking hands more times than she can count.  She has ruined so many beautiful charms, wasted, _wasted_ , and she’s very nearly out of supplies.

She spends days in the attic now.  Her little shrine is growing larger by the week.  Each little charm has its own little pedestal, and she’s beginning to run out of room.  She’s sold so many vases and artifacts brought home from distant places simply so she’ll have a spot for her latest treasure.  So many beautiful trinkets.  Those should please him, yet she hasn’t seen him.  She’s tried everything.  She’s even cut her own palm with a ragged old ceremonial knife to appease him.  She just wants to see his eyes again.  Just once.

Preston is beginning to notice, too.  He’d hold her hands in his large rough ones and ask what had happened.  He believes her hastily-woven lies about the maid and the dogs and the rats.  He fires the maid.  He beats the dogs.  He stomps the rats he can and poisons the rest.  But now she is almost out of excuses, and he is beginning to notice.  He saw her yesterday, glaring at the dancing children and insisted on taking her out for the day.  He didn’t even pay this much attention to her while they were freshly married.

He knows she’s trying to avoid him.

She can’t remember why she married him.  There was a reason, there had to be a reason.  Maybe she was beautiful and he wanted a doll at his side as he argued at Parliament.  Maybe she had a sweet personality, a gentle touch, a velveteen tongue, and he had fallen in love with her.  She remembers many men asking for her hand, so many men preening and fawning over her the way a puppy begs for a treat and a pat on the head.  She had turned them all down.  They were not good enough for her.  She had not known that at the time, but she knows it now.  She can be so much more, thanks to the boy with the dark skies.  He taught her so much in those few moments, those precious seconds that lasted so long but slipped away so quickly.  She is beginning to realize her true calling, her full potential, and those petty men would have slowed her down.  Preston slows her down.

He has to go.

She tries to rationalize it.  He hasn’t truly touched her in months, not since they returned from Pandyssia ( -  _but she_ ’ _s been avoiding him too, she_ ’ _s been hiding in the attic and bustling around the house, anything to avoid this dull, dull man_ ).  His lectures at Parliament are so tedious ( -  _but when she first met him, he had such a way with words, he could make the simplest ancient pot seem like the gods_ ’ _own toilet_ ).  He is ugly and boring and old.  She is young, smart, strong, virile - she can do anything, and he can do nothing.  He is holding her back.  He keeps her away from _him_.

For the first time in many, many weeks, she is humming as she walks into his room.  Her face is almost radiant.  She is smiling.  He looks up and smiles, relief clear in his eyes.  She presses her lips to his cheek.  “It’s so chilly out.  Have some soup.  Warm your bones, dearie.”


	2. Chapter 2

It starts as dizziness.  He, a man who takes pride his posture and routinely thumps boys who slouch, begins to lean against bookshelves and chairs.  One night as he sips his wine with Lord Brisby, she hears him contemplate purchasing a cane.  Lord Brisby talks him out of it - “You don’t want to end up like old Curlew, do you?” - and he doesn’t mention it again.  He tries so hard to be subtle about it.  People don’t notice it at first, but it’s hard to ignore a man who sways like a barefaced drunk.  They offer him chairs; he declines at first, but he accepts with progressively less resistance.  It isn’t long before he actively seeks out the nearest seat and claims it as his own.

His stomach does not agree with him.  His rich meals, overflowing with fatty meats and the finest fresh fish, do not stay down long.  Within two weeks, he is restricted to bland porridge and water, but even that comes right back up.  The only thing that satisfies him is her soup.  Only she makes it.  He asks a maid to make him some while she is away; the poor girl is never seen again.  The other servants take note - only the lady of the house is allowed to make him soup.

He coughs so much now.  It’s only been two months and already, his skeletal frame seems to crackle and snap with every hack and wheeze.  It reeks of garlic and blood.  He keeps his handkerchief at his side at all times now, usually in his hand.  Sometimes his hands, so stiff at his side, don’t make it up to his mouth in time and he sprays the blood across the floor.  It splatters the poor Pendleton boy - she can't tell which twin it is, they're far too similar, what a disgrace - and Lord Pendleton immediately causes an uproar that brings all of Parliament to a screeching halt. The Royal Spymaster takes him aside and speaks with him in hushed tones - it is private, but they might as well be under a spotlight. Preston doesn't return to Parliament again.

He deteriorates quickly after that.

He refuses to eat, but he must, he _must_ , so every night she forces the spoon between his weakly clenched teeth. He fights back, but he is so weak now. so frail. She almost feels sorry for him. He flails and wails like a newborn baby, but he is so weak. For a moment, she considers letting him starve -but no. No, she does not have time to wait. The dark one is waiting, and she has no more patience.

She calls the staff to the grandiose entry hall. They mill about aimlessly, confused, uneasy, tittering like birds when a cat is on the prowl. As she walks in, they immediately fall silent so the only sound is heels clacking on marble. She places herself before the enormous front door; they gather around her respectfully, hands folded behind backs, knees and spines straight, eyes on her face. She pauses to bask in the moment, in the sheer power of it ( - _she can make them do anything now, they live and breathe her will_ ) before speaking.

"As you all surely know, my darling Preston has been very ill as of late." Her voice is so solemn, and she prides herself in the touch of sadness that quivers on her tongue ( - _but is that glee she hears too, can they sense delight in her words?_ ). " The doctors say he will pass soon - a foreign ailment from Pandyssia, with no cure. It could be any moment now. He might be gone by the time I finish with you here." An audible gasp here and there, sympathetic murmurs from most, but their eyes never leave hers. "I would like you to take the night off, to take your mind off of such sad tidings. It is the Fugue Feast. Go - celebrate in this joyous occasion. Do not let my sorrow burden you."

They filter past her in groups of three or four, whispering condolences, well-wishes, gratitude. She does not move until she is certain they are all gone. She closes and bars the heavy doors. There. That part is done. Now she can focus on other things, more important things. She must tend to her husband; it is well past time for his soup.

She is hunched over a table, chopping potatoes when a thought strikes. Does Preston have to die? She pauses, leaning back to consider this. She had once loved him, truely and deeply. He had encouraged her unusual fancies and ideas, urged her to embrace her own wild imagination as no man in this city - nay, the Empire - would have. They had laughed and danced and argued with nothing short of passion. They were not just husband and wife. They were best friends.

( - _but it was on his suggestion that she had found the runes and charms - if not for him, she would never have met the man with those lovely dark eyes - he had opened her eyes to true power, to true happiness, had given her thrill no man could ever compete with, but it had been so fleeting, so brief, she wants it again, she_ needs _it again and she knows that Preston has to go_ )

As she approaches his door, she fishes her little bottle out of her pocket and pours the remainder into the bowl. The thick stew is now thin as water. This will go down so much more easily now. She drags a small pedestal to his bedside, sets the bowl on it, smiles sweetly at her husband's shrivelled, frightened face. "Why won't you eat your soup, dearie? It's still so cold, so dreary. You will feel so much better after."

He can barely raise his trembling hands to his face. "Vera - "

"Shh-h-h-h-h," she murmurs soothingly, stroking his cheek with a fingertip. "Preston - _dear_  Preston - why won't you let me help you? Don't you tire of fighting this? You look so tired. Just eat your soup, dearie, and go to sleep. You'll feel so much better."

"Vera, my love -" he tries again, but she slips a brimming spoon between his cracked and quivering lips. He chokes and tries to spit. Some trickles to his chin; she cleans it with the spoon. He fights her to the last drop. By the end of the bowl, he is retching and writhing in agony. She watches him with a faint, ever- growing smile. The last thing he sees before his eyes roll back into his head is her swaying slightly; the final sound is laughter, wicked and mad.

As she presses his eyelids closed, she wonders, _Could human bone work for my treasures?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the bad formatting. I wrote this on a shitty tablet because my computer is shot to hell. I'll fix as soon as I can!
> 
> This chapter was fun to write. Also very annoying. I feel like the bit where she questions killing him is super cliché though. I'll try to change that at some point.
> 
> Again, feedback + constructive criticism are loved, so please review and thanks for reading! I hoped you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

The funeral is a grand affair.  She knows it isn’t wise to announce her husband’s untimely death so brazenly to half the Empire, but he is - _was_ a nobleman, after all.  Besides, she is secretly curious to see how many people will come, how many still show him respect after the incidents of the past four months.  She cannot deny that she is not exactly surprised when only a handful of lords actually show up.  Her guests are entirely middle class ( _\- that isn_ ’ _t true, there are more peasants here than anything, but she cannot,_ cannot _, concede that her family associates with the dogs of Dunwall_ ).  She watches them without emotion as they devour her feast, taking note of the different faces - the varying classes and states of wealth - who stands alone in the crowd.

Who will be missed?

The Emperor is here with his nine-year-old daughter ( _\- of course he is, he has to be, Preston was technically still a member of Parliament when he died_ ) to offer his condolences.  He is polite but distant, as most noblemen are, but he is neither awkward and bumbling like Boyle nor blatantly perverted like Brisby.  She receives the men with a grace and dignity that surprises herself (although she may or may not have inadvertently agreed to spend an evening at Brisby’s mansion once her mourning period ends).  Even Royal Spymaster Henry Needham is there, though he does not express sympathy.  His presence is explained the moment he bullies his way to her side - he wishes only to verify that he is not blamed for Preston’s expulsion from Parliament and, thus, his unfortunate passing.  “Of _course_ you’re not to blame,” she assures him with a bright, tight-lipped smile.  “You were only acting in the best interests of the Empire.  Who could _possibly_ assume you were responsible for my poor, ailing husband losing the only thing that gave him joy, making him give up on life and as such surrendering to this unfortunate illness?  My goodness, Lord Needham, your position has caused you to be paranoid!  Perhaps you should take some time off - get away for a few weeks?  I hear Tyvia is _lovely_ this time of year.”  Needham makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and stares at her with bulging eyes for several long seconds.  When it becomes awkward, she lifts her hand and flicks it in a ‘shoo’ gesture.  He stumbles into the crowd, and she does not see him again that day.

She fires someone today.  The servants are cleaning up after the feast when she hears the twitter of merriment.  It is a maid maybe fifteen years old, young and beautiful and arms full of silverware.  She is chattering with an older woman, perhaps a cook or a laundry-maid, and laughing. Laughing!  Unacceptable.  Such blatant disrespect, and at her husband’s funeral, no less.  This will not stand.  No, it will not.

“What is this?”

The girl whips around, face exploding into crimson shame.  “Lady Moray - I - ”

“ - are engaged in the most glaring form of disdain for your master that I have ever seen.”  Her icy words cut through the trembling excuses like a red-hot poker through a pat of butter.  “Laughing at Lord Moray’s funeral?  Merriment?  His corpse is barely cold, and you already return to your own careless frivolity.  This behavior is intolerable, even in lesser companies.  And what is this?”  She snatches a fork from the girl’s arms and stabs the air dangerously close to her face.  “Are we stealing silverware now?  This fork _alone_  accounts for more wealth than your wretched family will ever see in its entire _existence_.  I should have you whipped for this.”  There is fear in her eyes.  “Or I could report you to the Overseers - oh yes, child, I’ve seen the strange things that happen around you.  There’s something about you, something _within_  you, that isn’t normal.  I don’t like it.”

“Madame - Lady Moray, _please_  - ”  

“But I am not without kindness.”  She points toward the servant quarters.  “Get your things.  You have five minutes before I call the dogs.  Get out of my home.  Do not _dare_  show your face here again.”

“But madame, I have nowhere to g-go!  Please, Lady, mercy!”  Ye gods, her voice is so shrill.  It grates against her ears and sends a cringe slithering over every inch of her skin.  She can’t take it anymore.  She can’t.  It is like an army of whining rats skittering about her ankles, climbing her calves, circling her hips - 

“ _Get.  Out_.”

A scream of pain and despair.  The older woman is dragging the child away.  The girl is screaming “You whore!  You bitch!  I’ll kill you for this!  You’ve ruined me!  I’ll have you whipped for this, you bitch!  You won’t hear the end of me!  You _won’t_!”  She gazes at the girl, dimly recognizing that her face is smeared with fresh blood, realizing only now that the fork in her quivering hand is dripping onto the floor.  She drops it and spins toward the spiral stairs.  As she walks past a stunned manservant, she coolly instructs him to “clean that up.  Release the wolfhounds the second she sets foot in my gardens.  Make sure all of you know your place from here on out.  Life is about to become very, _very_  different, dearie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it took me almost three hours to find out when Hiram Burrows became Spymaster just so I knew how to write this (but I ended up writing him the way I would write Burrows ANYWAY so what was the point really). THREE HOURS, GUYS. This is bullshit I am done goodbye
> 
> But anyway, NOTES:  
> \- writing a bitchy Vera was fun - I feel like Vera as a noble is a total bitch, but I also feel like I didn't write her correctly? Anybody got input on that maybe?  
> \- writing at McDonalds is hard because you have people conSTANTLY INTERRUPTING YOU WHY but the feedback is nice so I guess I can't really gripe too much (i'm gonna tho)  
> \- ranch crackers from Dollar Tree are suuuuper good with cheese dip (like, the cheese dip you get in the little 'pretzels with cheese dip buckets'? THAT) and I should be working on a commission but instead I am sitting here writing and watching this beautiful thunderstorm roll in and hopefully not wipe out the power.
> 
> ...I'm'a hush now.
> 
> ANYWAY - I love constructive criticism and feedback, so please please review or just PM me any thoughts. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


	4. Chapter 4

14th Day, Month of Wind, 1814

 

They’ve returned a week early.  Chastity is furious.  She got yelled at by L. Vera because their welcome home dinner wasn’t waiting for them.  She was ranting the entire time us cooks were making the food.  “They should have sent word!  It would have only taken them five minutes to send word!  Moray does nothing but write letters on his stupid trips, could it have killed him to scribble a damn _note_?”

Don’t tell her I said so but I agree.

Something’s off about L. Vera.  She was a spoiled little rich girl before, but now she’s…more regal, I guess?  She acts all cold and stiff now, like she’s the Empress or something.  It’s not really a big deal, I guess, but it’s creepy.  It’s her eyes that really get me.  They’re like little balls of marble.  Like the eyes of a statue.  I get shivers just thinking about it.

 

* * *

 

7th Day, Month of Darkness 1814

 

Something’s not right with L. Preston.  He’s getting dizzy all the time.  He was in the library with Florence and he almost fell but she caught him and helped him sit down.  He asked Brisby if he should get a cane but Brisby just made fun of him until he changed the subject.  I think he should get one.  

All the little tables in the rooms and halls are going missing.  Apparently L Vera is selling all of the vases and statues and stuff just so she can use the tables - at least that’s what Franny says.  But where is she putting them all?

L Vera is spending a lot more time in the kitchen.  She’s always making that weird soup of hers.  She won’t let any of us touch it or make it for her.  She screamed at Sally for offering yesterday.  I just stay out of her way.  She scares me.

 

* * *

 

27th Day, Month of Clans, 1814

 

L. Preston is locked in his room.  He won’t open the door.  He won’t speak to anyone.  Joe Mulvany from the Pendletons stopped by earlier to trade for some tobacco and said that L Preston threw up blood all over Custis Pendleton and the Royal Spymaster told him to leave and not come back.  I feel sorry for him.  Parliament is his life now that he can’t travel anymore.

All the doctors say he is to eat nothing but bland porridge, plain bread, and water.  L. Vera won’t even let him have that.  For the past few months, he has eaten nothing but soup and drunk nothing but wine.  He’s got to be tired of that.  We wait until she’s out of the house or something and then sneak him food.  He’s so grateful.  He almost kissed me for it yesterday but I had to run out because Sally came and told me she was home.

She doesn’t care.  Yeah, she’s all sad and tears and boohoo my husband’s dying waaaaah when people are around but when it’s just her and us, she’s cold.  She literally doesn’t care at all about him.  The only thing she cares about as far as he is concerned is that he eats his damn soup.

And why is she always in the attic?  What can she possibly be doing up there?  She has a whole set of rooms all to herself and she hides out in the attic?  That’s really really weird.  Tomorrow’s my day off.  I’m going to try and find out what’s going on.

 

* * *

 

Day 2, Fugue Feast

 

Lord Preston is dead.

 

* * *

 

Day 4, Month of Earth 1815

 

I just saw L Vera stab a girl in the face with a fork and sic the hounds on her.

She wasn’t even doing anything.  We were all cleaning up after the funeral feast and. she was laughing at a joke that Fidelia told and Vera just _appeared_  next to her.  She told her off for being a public disgrace or something and accused her of pinching the silver and fired her and when the girl - god, I don’t even know her _name_  - begged for mercy, Vera just… _stabbed_  her.  

Then as Fidelia was dragging the poor girl off, Vera just turned around and told Nathaniel that life was about to change.

I hid under the table as soon as she stabbed the girl.  I didn’t move for at least an hour.  I was too scared.  I think I need to leave this horrible place.

 

* * *

 

Day 19, Month of Wind, 1815

 

There’s only three of us left.  L Vera has sacked all the rest.  It’s only been five months since L Preston mayherestinpeace passed.  In those five months, she has fired over fifty-seven people.  Twenty-something have quit or run away.  Sixteen people have just disappeared.  My own sister is gone.  I know she didn’t run away.  Patsy had another job lined up in the Boyle kitchen, apprentice to the head chef.  And she wouldn’t just leave without telling me.

I’m the only girl left in the kitchen and I’m terrified.  I don’t know what I’m doing.  I was just a cleaner.  I mean, they’d let me help gather ingredients and chop and mix, but that’s it.  I do dishes.  I mop floors.  I gather firewood and chase the rats out.  That’s my job.  I don’t know how to cook!  I’m going to be sacked next, or worse.  I just know it.

There are so many rats now.  I used to see only two or three a day in the staff quarters and the kitchen and pantry, but now I see them everywhere.  I’ve tried poisons and traps and a cat and I even bought one of those little magic charms off of a crazy homeless man who claims they’ll drive the rats away, but I swear it brings them in faster.  I’m going to burn it tomorrow, or throw it in the river.  It makes a strange sound, a sort of humming, and I get all uneasy and paranoid when I’m around it.  Probably because the Overseers will arrest me if they found out I have one.  But it’s just a little superstitious charm, who cares?  It doesn’t matter.  I’m getting rid of it.

 

* * *

 

Day 27, Month of Wind, 1815

 

I need to get out of this house.  The attic is… I don’t know what it is.  It’s a huge purple glowing shrine to something.  All those missing tables are up there, and they’re holding charms - some of them are like the one I bought to help with the rats, but most of them are huge, the size of my face, and they all have the same symbol on them.  One of those is in the middle of the big purple shrine in the middle.  They’re all humming so loudly it’s like screaming inside my mind.  

L. Vera is a witch.  I’m certain of it.

It is my day off tomorrow.  I’m going to report her to the Overseers, and then I’m going to run.  I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’m leaving Dunwall.  She can’t find me outside the city. 

Can she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of perspective for this one. I was trying to write this from Vera's perspective and I just couldn't make it work. Hopefully this doesn't ruin the pacing and the mood of the whole fic... *fretfretfret*
> 
> Anyway, I love feedback. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do Month of the Void this year (partly to prepare for NaNo, partly because DISHONORED TWO AAAAH), so I slapped this together. I'm planning to edit and make it longer, but for now, I'm leaving it here? Constructive Criticism desired, so hit me up.


End file.
